


and i'm carving the sky

by figure8



Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Forbidden Love, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Power Dynamics, Royalty, Science Fiction, Secret Relationship, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-09 22:59:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: When you are his sword and his shield you cannot also be his lover.





	and i'm carving the sky

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was written for round 2 of seventeen's jukebox! my prompt was [palo santo](https://genius.com/Years-and-years-palo-santo-lyrics) by years & years. i could make this author's note novel length and analyze the whole song but instead of boring you, let's go with this: i think at its essence palo santo is a song about caving in to carnal desires, and desperately wanting someone you have lost. 
> 
> i affectionately call this fic space opera, but mostly it's a tragic romance But In Space. don't expect anything, like, too heavy on the scifi side. that being said, a few warnings that i didn't want to tag because it felt like, idk, false advertising or something:  
> \- a seventeen member is genderswapped for plot purposes  
> \- one of this story's central themes is social expectations, it translates among other things into a gay man being forced into an arranged marriage  
> \- while the two characters that are married do not love each other and couldn't care less about what the other is doing, they objectively both cheat multiple times 
> 
> i'll leave you with this story's [soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/thedeadrobin/playlist/7EwggHOZjgIhi6yqjgY5Gx?si=405F8b7vR2OOLEx1GzoXng). enjoy ❤️

_for an ice age I knew you only as an idea of longing:_  
_a voice in the next yard, whispering through the chink_  
_a vagabond outlined against the sky, among the drying grass_

 _  
_ _[...]_

  
_you pinnacle of my life, stand with me on this brink_  
_half-clouded basin caked in flat grays, the very demise of green_

 

 _you have surmounted the craggy boundary between us_  
_  
_ _you open a place for me in earth, receiving my song_

— CONTINENTAL DIVIDE, D. A. Powell

 

**_now._ **

They’re arguing, the first time it happens. Junhui waits until they are back in the small single room he sleeps in, away from his soldiers, before he lets his anger show.

“Don’t you ever fucking disobey me like that again,” he grits, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Sir,” Minghao  protests, “Your life was at risk. As your second, I—”

“You humiliated me,” Junhui stops him. “They already think I am unable to protect myself.”

Minghao wants to say something, but Junhui’s fists are shaking, violence barely contained. Sometimes there is so much of it in Junhui’s body it seems like it’s going to spill over, flood the room, flood the entire base. Minghao knows better than to provoke him now.

They stare at each other for a while—Minghao  silent and still, Junhui trembling, his chest heaving. The air smells sterile, artificial oxygen flowing in through the vents; but it is also sizzling with something akin to electricity, sparks almost visible.

He doesn’t know who makes the first move. In a blur he finds himself slammed against the door, Junhui’s mouth on his; but he thinks he might have reached for Junhui, too. They kiss hungrily, all pent-up aggression and teeth and fight. It isn’t how Minghao wants to kiss him. They’re already soldiers, this isn’t a battle. He parts Junhui’s lips open with his tongue, kisses him deep and wet and slow, one hand pressed to Junhui’s breastbone. He can feel the vibrations of Junhui’s heart against his palm, steady, and strong, and _real._

It’s the crystallization of years of yearning. There have been _almosts,_ before this. Moments suspended in time, their proximity suddenly unbearable, the air between them thick with meaning. Of course it is resolved in _anger._ What is this, between them, if not struggle?

Minghao doesn’t even realize Junhui has gone for his belt until the buckle snaps open, yanking tight for a second before it slithers free. He looks down just as Junhui drags blunt nails over the leather stretching over his erection and the sight is almost better than the feel of it.

“I’m still pissed at you,” Junhui says, making quick work of the button and the zipper.

“I was just doing my job, sir.” He intends for it to come out firm, but Junhui gets his hand inside his pants before he can finish and his sentence ends on a choked whine. He hates how needy he sounds.

Junhui stares at him severely. “Dying’s not your job.”

Minghao swallows harshly, panting against his own wrist. “Protecting you is. And I’m—I’m not dead yet, am I?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Junhui huffs angrily, and Minghao staggers a little when suddenly Junhui just _lets go,_ stops touching him.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, babble ready to trickle out, anything for Junhui’s hands on him again. But then his pants are being yanked down, and Junhui sinks to his knees. It’s a sight to behold. Palms pressed to Minghao’s hips, Junhui just _looks_ at him, as if he can’t quite believe he has Minghao half naked and at his mercy. That’s ridiculous, obviously. Junhui knows—Junhui _has to_ know he always has Minghao, in every sense of the term. “My Lord—?” He can feel Junhui’s breath on his cock, and he wants this so bad it hurts, now. “Please,” he pleads.

“Don’t do that to me again,” Junhui groans, and then he slides his mouth down Minghao’s length, taking as much as he can at once. It’s hot and wet and _good_ , and Minghao’s hand goes to cup Junhui’s head mechanically, grabbing the golden curls gently. Junhui looks up at him through his eyelids, lips red and stretched obscenely around Minghao’s cock. _You’re fucking the Prince,_ Minghao thinks deliriously.

“Junhui,” he says. Junhui moans around him, and Minghao’s knees shake a little. It’s the use of his first name, Minghao  knows. Duke of Guangdong, Second Prince of the House of Wen—never just _Junhui._ A sun-bathed warrior in black armor, giant and terrifying on the battlefield. Junhui wants to be seen, he wants to be known. He wants to be naked and exposed and stripped of his royalty, which is why he’s on his knees in front of Minghao. He wants the freedom of being _nobody,_ even if for a mere fleeting instant.

Warmth drizzles down Minghao’s spine and his fingers slip from Junhui’s hair to his face that he touches cautiously—reverently. He pours all his trust and devotion carefully into the motion, his gaze deliberate too.

“Jun, I’m—,” he warns, and he swallows back the _My Lord_ with difficulty. It feels disrespectful, the inside of his mouth burning, but satisfying the prince is his duty. He tries to pull away, but Junhui follows the motion, ignores his words and laps at his cock hungrily, and it’s hard to refuse him. Minghao attempts to anyway.

Pulling back visibly annoyed, Junhui grunts, “Come on.”

His jaw goes slack and his hands leave Minghao’s hipbones, and there’s nothing preventing Minghao from fucking Junhui’s mouth. The curve of his lips is the stamp on an invitation letter—thick cream paper, cooled red wax.

So Minghao does, sinks into the velvety heat and takes and takes and _takes,_ and it’s glorious, and Junhui whimpers softly as Minghao uses him, like it’s all he’s ever wanted. Is it all he’s ever wanted? Has anyone else given it to him before? Minghao shakes his head to chase the acid thought away, but it hangs on like a snake, fangs deep in his flesh already.

When Minghao comes—wordlessly, muscles slumping—Junhui swallows all of it eyes closed, with practiced ease. Minghao drags him up by the collar for a kiss, tastes his own bitterness on Junhui’s tongue and hums contently against his mouth. Junhui’s hardness is digging into his thigh, and he grinds against it reflexively.

“What do you need?” Minghao  murmurs, sliding his hand down Junhui’s chest, to his waist.

“Turn around,” Junhui orders hoarsely, and Minghao  obliges. It’s fascinating, how he oscillates between submission and dominance, unsure but always fully focused on the role he’s playing. “I want to fuck you,” he mouths against Minghao’s neck. “Wanted to since the first day of Basic.”

Minghao’s throat feels dry. He thinks about how he’s wanted Junhui for much, much longer than that. It’s a dangerous direction to head in, so he tucks the thought away in a corner of his brain. “What are you waiting for, then?” he manages to ask, but it doesn’t sound nearly as assured as he intended it to.

“You’re my second,” Junhui groans as he fumbles with his own belt and pants. “You’re my responsibility.” It must not mean much now, then, half naked and wanting. “God, fuck, look at you. I don’t—I don’t have anything here.” He sounds regretful. “Don’t turn around.”

Minghao can feel him against the inside of his thighs, already leaking, and he knows what’s expected of him. He closes his legs, lets Junhui rut against the smooth skin there. “ _Fuck_ ,” Junhui says again. “Minghao. _Minghao_.”

His grip on Minghao’s bicep edges on painful. Minghao wonders briefly if he’s going to leave bruises, hand-shaped, proprietary. Junhui moans softly and sags against him, his chin on Minghao’s shoulder, his strong body covering Minghao’s. There is come on his ass, dripping down his legs, and it should feel filthy but mostly it just feels right. Junhui kisses his jawline absently. “Thank you.”

“My Lord—,” Minghao  begins, and he doesn’t realize his mistake until it’s too late. Junhui immediately steps away from him and tucks himself back into his uniform. When Minghao  turns around to face him, his expression has turned hard again, all doors closed.

“Go back to your quarters, Xu,” he orders tiredly.

There is shame in Minghao’s bones as he walks down the hallway, dark and liquid, infecting the marrow like a silent disease.

 

**_then._ **

It begins, really, on the small planet of Guangdong, when Minghao is barely thirteen.

Junhui is just a prince then, fifteen and fresh and prettier than springtime; so far removed from the line of succession he is untouchable, unsubstantial. His father is the Emperor’s cousin, Duke of Guangdong. Wen Junhui is destined to a long lavish life of unearned privilege, easy luxuries. Xu Minghao, just like the majority of his peers, is destined to watch him from afar.

They’re a military family, the Xu clan. Always at the Duke’s service. Minghao’s father is a proud man who wears his scars like medals. Each one tells a thousand stories, and Minghao can recount all of them. One can find skin-smoothing solutions on the shelves at the supermarket, the kind you just pour into your bath water, but Minghao’s father is still covered in battle marks. Minghao’s favorite is on his left cheek, a relatively small incision that never quite healed right. Starfighter explosion—a single millimeter to the right and it would have been his eye the metal had sliced through. Minghao likes what it represents. Sometimes it really only boils down to sheer luck. It is a terrifying thought. It is, somehow, a reassuring one too.

It begins, really, when his father brings him to Court, Minghao dressed in red ceremonial robes, his most expensive, most refined outfit. Everywhere he looks gold reflects on his irises. The palace is made out of anthracite and marble—a sleek, indecently sized chess board.

He spots the young prince by complete chance, by mistake. A convoy passes them by as his father ushers Minghao up the imposing stone stairway to the main door. Minghao freezes, mesmerized, turns to look, takes in the foreign vision like it’s water and he’s dying of thirst. Too curious, always too curious.

Between the horses there is a palanquin carried by eight men. It is covered in red gems, the rare kind, the ones that can only be mined in the Outer Belt. It’s what makes Minghao stop at first.

What makes him _stare_ is that the palanquin’s curtains are open, exposing its single passenger’s regal profile. Minghao’s eyes are attracted to the elegant slope of his nose like magnets to the poles. His father has to shake him by the shoulders to make him turn away.

“Who?” he stutters then, “Who _was_ that?”

“His Excellency’s second son,” his father tells him.

“I’ve never seen someone so beautiful,” Minghao gapes, tempted to flee the strong grip on his arm, to run down the stairs again.

Minghao’s father shakes his head, amused. “Everyone is beautiful inside these walls, Xiao Hao.”

And yet Minghao will spend years, decades at Court, and never see a single person as beautiful as Junhui of Wen.

 

**_then._ **

The Emperor dies on a calm day, unexpectedly, as the first snowfall covers Shenzhen. News travel fast across the Galactic Empire, and the large screens of every street in Guangdong suddenly flash bright red in mourning.

Minghao is seventeen, freshly enrolled at the Academy. All the boys in his dormitory rush to the windows, pushing each other just to catch a glimpse, not yet fully aware of the magnitude of what just happened. The shattering realization will come later, when the capital drapes itself in scarlet as the Duke hurriedly boards a transporter to fly to Beijing for the funeral.

For now they’re just boys leaning against the windowsill elbow to elbow, faces bathed in bloodlike light, as the ringing of the bells resonates through Shenzhen.

Minghao doesn’t think of Wen Junhui then. That, too, will come later; when the Duke’s transporter crashes on a meteorite on its way to Beijing, robbing Junhui of his father and his brother in a single devastating second, and propulsing him to the throne unprepared.

 

**_now._ **

The second time it happens Junhui doesn’t give him the time to argue. Hunched over a map, laser pointer retracing the optimal pathways, they both stop talking at the same moment, suddenly hyperaware of their proximity. They’re so close Junhui’s hair is tickling Minghao’s nose, and now that their eyes are raised he can see speckles of amber in the brown rings around Junhui’s pupils. Face flushed, cheeks suddenly on fire, Minghao takes a stumbling step back. Junhui’s fingers close around his wrist.

“Minghao,” he says softly.

It’s been a week since their tryst in Junhui’s quarters. He has only addressed Minghao as _Lieutenant general Xu_ in the time that has elapsed.

“My Lord,” Minghao replies, averting his gaze.

Junhui tugs him closer still. “Say my name,” he demands, not quite a whisper, but almost.

“Junhui,” Minghao obeys. It comes out hoarse and blasphemous. He kisses the Duke to give his mouth something else to do. Like that at least, hand in Junhui’s hair, sharing breath, there are no names to call.

He doesn’t really know how he finds himself on the table. This seems to be a pattern, Minghao not really knowing how these things end up escalating—although for it to be a pattern, really, it would need to happen more than twice, and for it to happen more than twice—

Junhui is mouthing at the side of his neck, teeth dragging lightly, very clearly refraining from leaving a mark. Minghao appreciates the effort, even if he’s sure _someone_ on board must have some anti-contusion cream to spare.

They should not be doing this. It’s easier this time, because his head is clearer—less adrenaline, and also less pure shock. But he still _wants_ so much, he’s dizzy with it.

“Sir,” he gasps. Junhui detaches his mouth from Minghao’s throat to glare at him. Minghao feels hysterical laughter bubbling up inside his gullet. Junhui really—really expects him to—

“ _Jun_ ,” he tries.

“That’s better,” Junhui says, thumb retracing the arch of Minghao’s collarbone, pulling down his shirt collar. “Do you remember—”

“Yes,” Minghao interrupts him hastily. He doesn’t want to think about their Academy days. He’ll never find it in himself to push Junhui away if he starts strolling down memory lane. “Jun, we have to stop.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” Junhui says. “I’m the Duke of Guangdong.”

“I want you to stop,” Minghao says. Junhui lets go of him as if he was burned. _You have power over him._ What a poisoned apple, what a curse.

“Did you let me touch you because you thought you had to?” He sounds horrified.

It would be easy to let him believe that. It would be easier.

Minghao loves him too much to allow him self-hatred.

He reaches for Junhui’s face tentatively, traces the line of his jaw with his pointer finger. “You’ve never had to force me to do anything. You should know that, by now.”

“You call me by my title,” Junhui insists, anguished. “I never know where we stand.”

Minghao brings their foreheads together. “I’m behind you. I’m always behind you. That is where we stand.”

“I don’t want you behind me,” Junhui says, his breath hot on Minghao’s skin. “I want you by my side.”

Confessions like these have brought empires down. Minghao has studied History. Confessions like these are admissions of weakness.

“You’re engaged, My Lord,” he says quietly, backing away. The distance between them isn’t enough.

“That woman is hardly my lover,” Junhui snorts, disbelieving. “I’ve maybe talked to her three times in my life.”

“ _That woman,_ ” Minghao says, as stony as he can muster, “Is going to be the mother of your children.”

“You wound me,” Junhui says then, voice abruptly raw, maybe a little bit too honest. “Every time you turn away, every time you speak to me formally, you wound me.”

 _I was not made to orbit the sun,_ Minghao thinks. _I’m a moon and he’s the furthest thing from a planet._

His jacket lies abandoned on the armchair in the corner of the office; he took it off the moment he stepped in, because it’s always warm in Junhui’s rooms. _The Prince cannot handle the cold. The Prince is too homesick to lead this war._ The rumors run faster than horses through the military base, but Minghao knows the truth. When they were rooming together at the Academy Minghao used to get sick so easily. Junhui never really lost the habit of secretly bumping the temperature up a few degrees.

He wishes he was wearing the jacket now, wishes he could cover up. He’s still fully dressed otherwise but he feels naked under Junhui’s heavy gaze.

“My Lord, if I have harmed you—”

“Get out,” Junhui shakes his head, eyes closed. “Get out, get _out_.” He sounds exhausted, not angry. Somehow that is ten times worse.

 _Jun,_ Minghao wants to call out, _my love, my Jun._

But he’s not a fool. One cannot play both sides of the chess board. It’s white _or_ black, and Minghao was assigned this particular set of pawns at birth, just like Junhui was his.

 

**_then._ **

Junhui’s hair is dyed auburn the day they meet. It’s cut short, following Army regulation, a far cry from his usual long wavy coiffure. Minghao realizes pretty quickly that he’s the only one in their class that recognized the Prince.

It’s not surprising. The Second Son never appeared publicly, and even at the Palace, he was seen rarely, and when he was it was never bare-faced. Without the elaborate red and black runes on his cheeks, eyes unlined and soft, Junhui is beautiful in a calmer, gentler way.

They call him Jun. If anyone else notices the subterfuge, they keep their lips sealed just like Minghao.

The Academy produces officers, but officers should know the reality of the battlefield. Minghao has been preparing for this all his life, and even he goes to bed every day with his body aching, his muscles screaming in protest. Junhui, on the other hand, was never meant to be a warrior. His skin is too soft for the roughness of the sand they wrestle on. It takes him barely a week to be littered in bruises, blue and purple and yellow swirling along his arms like living tattoos.

He cries in frustration once, after falling during rope-climbing. Sitting on the ground, his palms burned, he closes his eyes and his shoulders start trembling. One of their classmates snickers, and something terrible unfurls itself at the pit of Minghao’s belly, like a hibernating dragon finally waking up.

In the locker rooms, he sits on the bench next to Junhui even though his things are all in the opposite corner of the room. He waits for the others to streamline to the shower before speaking.

“If you want, I could teach you.”

He means rope-climbing. He means—

“You know who I am,” Junhui says. It’s not a question.

Minghao considers lying. He’s never been very good at it.

“Yes. That’s not why I’m offering.”

Junhui tilts his head to the side. “Why, then?”

 _It’s hard to put words on it,_ Minghao almost tells him. _When I was little I caught a glimpse of you in a carriage and ever since you’ve haunted my dreams._

“Because no one else will,” he says instead, which is also the truth. Their instructors gave up on Junhui the first week of Basic Training. The other boys have formed their cliques already. Those who know his real identity probably believe he doesn’t need to be taught anyway. Those who don’t laugh behind his back—sometimes in front of him. But Minghao sees perseverance in the way Junhui moves. He can work with that.

“I’m your charity case, then,” Junhui smiles.

It’s impossible not to grin in return. “Something like that.”

 

**_then._ **

Within the walls of the Academy Minghao becomes a knight.

His future, he has always known, has never held any secrets. His clan serves at His Excellency’s pleasure. He was always destined for this—a soldier in the darkness, the Duke’s hand, the Duke’s will. But he meets his fate earlier than expected, and more directly—he looks it in the eye.

Wen Junhui finds in him respite and recognition, and for that Minghao knows he will be recompensed. He already is, in many ways. Junhui treats him like a friend, like an equal, and that is a privilege he must cherish; he knows that after the graduation ceremony everything will quietly fall into place again.

 

Junhui requests the room change on a cold Monday morning. Minghao comes back to his dorm room to find all his possessions already packed, and one of the boys from the year bellow sitting on what used to be Minghao’s bed.

“They’re moving you to the upper floor,” the boy tells him.

Minghao frowns, “In the middle of the year?”

The other boy shrugs.

“I figured it would be easier, like this,” Junhui explains later, once Minghao has finished moving in to their two-rooms suite. It has its own bathroom. He’s a little starstruck. “To train in the evening, if you don’t have to sneak back into your dorm.”

Minghao raises an eyebrow, fondness flowing through him already, warm wax. “Were you lonely, My Lord?”

He worries immediately that he might have gone too far. He’s been besting the young Duke in hand to hand combat every night for a few weeks now, and it’s easy to forget about the canyon between them in the dojo, Junhui under him, nothing but a boy, flesh and bones and not a drop of gold.

But Junhui just laughs, tugs at Minghao’s sleeve to pull him inside, show him the view from their window.

 _Maybe,_ he confesses. _Maybe._

 

**_now._ **

They take back Anshan. It’s a small planet on the outer rim, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. To Minghao it means something. It’s where his clan was from, before settling in Guangdong; their coat of arms has not changed, Anshan blue on Guangdong red. Junhui knows that. Minghao watches him in his dress uniform lay down an attack plan that makes the rest of his officers frown because of its impracticality, holding missile fire as a very last resort. His voice is steady when he orders his troops not to bomb the temples. Minghao’s ribcage turns into a forest, lianas encircling his heart.

When the rebels surrender, Junhui himself boards a small transporter to travel down to the surface. He takes Minghao with him and says nothing during the short ride down, allows Minghao this absurd moment, nose pressed to the glass of the porthole.

“It’s so… green,” he whispers, in awe. “I never thought I would get to see it.”

“We’ll have to build an outpost,” Junhui says. “I’ll make you Governor, if you want.”

Minghao inhales gratitude like too much oxygen. It’s a heady, dizzying feeling. “Isn’t that up to the Regent, My Lord?”

Junhui tilts his head to the side, smiles knowingly. “I have more than a few favors to pull.”

Minghao detaches his gaze from the window, turns to face him. He slowly lowers himself to one knee. “If My Lord wants to send me away, then I will go.”

“By the Gods, Minghao,” Junhui furrows his brows, “I meant to make you happy.”

“Then allow me to stay by your side and serve.”

Junhui’s hand comes to rest on the crown of his head. His palm is warm even through leather gloves. His voice, when he speaks, comes out low. “You know where I want you. I’ve told you—if I could, Minghao, I would give you the throne next to mine.”

Minghao raises his head then, so their eyes can meet. “You cannot speak in this way.”

“Who else is here, Lieutenant general?” Junhui asks, this time with an edge of bitterness bleeding into his sarcasm. “Who else is here except you, who already knows my heart?”

The transporter lands, and the cabin shakes around them. Junhui closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Minghao pushes himself up.

They are face to face now. In 120 seconds the doors will open. Minghao places his open palm on Junhui’s chest.

“I promised to help you carry all burdens. I carry this one too, so that you can lead. Let me take it.”

Junhui’s bottom lip is trembling. Then the door hisses, air unsealed as it slowly parts in two, and his face becomes a painting, all lines severe and stable. Minghao takes a step back.

 

**_then._ **

Looking back, Minghao knows when it morphed from a child’s obsession, a blossoming friendship, to—to _this,_ this unspeakable longing. He can pinpoint the exact moment he opened that door, and how he’s been absolutely unable to close it since then. They are aboard a small transporter, ready to take off, just him and Junhui and the pilot, and Junhui is white as a sheet of paper.

 _It’s his first time,_ Minghao realizes, the horror of it sinking in slowly. _He hasn’t flown since his family’s death._

The pilot is a young man Minghao’s age, the son of a noble he knows by name from their Academy years. Lee Seokmin, Minghao remembers, made some waves by choosing the sky over a comfortable government job, love over tradition.

“Hold on tight!” Seokmin yells, barely audible as the engine roars. Minghao buckles his seatbelt, turns around. Junhui is trembling.

“Your Highness,” he says as soft as he can. He doesn’t think Junhui can hear him. His knuckles are turning phantom-white where he’s gripping the armrest. “Jun,” Minghao says, louder, propriety be damned. Seokmin is too busy _piloting the aircraft_ to pay attention to them anyway. “Give me your hand.”

Junhui does not move. Minghao sighs and interlinks their fingers.

“I hate this,” Junhui hisses between gritted teeth, finally.

Minghao feels the ocean unfurl within him, waves crashing on the shore. Fondness can be a storm. “I know you do.”

Seokmin presses a few buttons, lowers a few switches. “Okay, here we go,” he grins.

The transporter takes off. Junhui holds Minghao’s hand so tight his nails leave moon-like indents on Minghao’s palm that last for days.

 

Or maybe, maybe it was earlier still. Maybe it was graduation day, Junhui finally free to shed his disguise, beautiful like the Sun-God in his ceremonial robes, sabre at his side. Maybe it was when he had looked at Minghao right before walking to the podium, the last few seconds that belonged to them two and them two alone, before Minghao had to return Junhui to Guangdong.

Or the night before that, maybe, in the darkness, Junhui murmuring, his words breeze in the quiet. _I’m terrified. I don’t think I’m ready._

And Minghao had reached for him, touched him with the easy familiarity of military boys, acutely aware that this too was a privilege he was going to lose by morning.

_No one ever is._

 

Really, he knows on his knees as Junhui knights him, makes him Lieutenant general of his army, against all rules, against the wrath of the Council, against the entire world. He knows when Junhui opens a wing of the palace for him, he knows when Junhui stands his ground at Court, tells them he will surround himself with men he trusts, not men he buys.

_The Duke’s burdens are my burdens. The Duke’s fight is my fight._

 

**_now._ **

After Anshan, their orders are to travel further north. The Regent wants them to take back the Outer Belt, enclose the rebels, then finally crush them in one last act of triumph. Junhui has been a reluctant conqueror up to now, slow advances, minimal damage. Neither the nobles left in Guangdong nor the Imperial Court are happy with him, but the Regent needs Guangdong’s army just like Guangdong needs the Empire’s resources. It’s a cold war, the hot one only a fight by proxy.

Minghao wakes up one morning to find the ship has seemingly changed course overnight. In the control room, to his surprise, the captain tells him the order came from the Duke himself.

The artificial sun that rules over time on the ship has not yet completely risen but he finds Junhui in his study, looking like he hasn’t slept at all. The door is open, which is also unusual. Minghao doesn’t know how to address him. It was a mistake, of course, to cave in. All this years of restraint lost for _nothing,_ for him to stand useless at his sovereign’s doorstep hand balled into a fist, afraid to knock.

“Come in,” Junhui calls him when he raises his eyes and spots him under the doorframe.

“My Lord,” Minghao starts carefully, “You are flying us away from the Belt?”

Junhui stares for a moment, says nothing. His shoulders are tense, Minghao notices. He carries more than this war, this morning.

“I have been called back to Shenzhen,” he explains finally.

Minghao shakes his head. “I don’t understand. What could possibly—”

“The Council has set a date for my union with the Princess,” Junhui interrupts him.

Minghao’s blood freezes in his veins. He swallows dryly. _Oh,_ a small voice says inside his head, _oh, this is how I lose him. This is how I lose him for real._

“My Lord,” he starts, and then trails off into emptiness, because there is nothing to say except pleasantries neither of them believes in. “My congratulations,” he finishes lamely.

“Don’t,” Junhui sighs. “Just—don’t.”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“Then say nothing. It’s not as if—”

“No,” Minghao confirms. “It’s not, indeed.”

Stupidly, he thought he would have more time. It hurts like a knife lodged between two ribs. Somehow the space between them feels deeper in that second than it did all these years ago when Junhui had no idea Minghao even existed and Minghao couldn’t look anywhere but right at him.

 

**_then._ **

Yoon Jeonghan’s silver hair cascades over her shoulders, not a single strand out of place. She stares ahead, expressionless, body taut as a bow. She knows what awaits.

This is Seoul’s offering to the young Duke. Their third daughter—scraps, leftovers. Beautiful but useless, an empty gesture. She stands proud; perfect face, well-drawn angles. Minghao wishes he could bring himself to hate her.

But she didn’t ask for this. It was decided for her, like it was decided for Junhui; their fates intertwined forcefully, stubborn vines forced to grow along espaliers.

The wedding, already, has been postponed. Before the princess even stepped foot in Shenzhen, the Council had already declared the ceremony could not be held in times of war. Junhui had scoffed, rolled his eyes. An unwed Duke, on a planet bathed in symbolism, is a weak Duke.

Under the sun, dressed in royal red, Junhui welcomes his future Duchess with a royal smile, and a royal hand to hold. Her arrival is being televised for all of Guangdong to witness. Uncertainty has flooded the Empire, tsunami tide, since the Emperor’s death. No one at the helm, rebels attacking, nobles turning their coats. The Yoon princess, Junhui hopes, can represent stability—a prosperous future. He’s the only Wen alive. Guangdong knows too well, now, how fragile even regal life can be.

Minghao watches from a balcony as the man he loves bows to the woman he will make his wife. He wonders if Junhui will allow him to leave court, once Jeonghan and him are tied. The walls are surprisingly thin in the palace.

He wonders, too, if it is better to be blind, to be deaf—or to know.

**Author's Note:**

> a giant thank you to r, d, and t for the handholding. thank you as well of course to the jukebox mods for 1) organizing this whole thing in general and 2) dealing with my deadline-averse ass in particular
> 
> if you enjoyed this chapter, please don't hesitate to leave a comment. writing fic is a labor of love and all we have to keep us going is your precious feedback ❤️


End file.
